


and you are the only thing I will ever need

by viansian



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, changing this to a collection of drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viansian/pseuds/viansian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and oneshots under 5,000 words. Summaries inside each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. brave princess (save yourself)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke dreams of a certain someone who tells her that sitting on her lazy ass in a quarantined cell is no longer an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I wasn't even planning to post this on AO3 (it was more of a drabble inspired by this (goo.gl/WFlMea) post on tumblr, and I consider my account here my exclusive, only-post-the-worthy-and-long-fics-I-spend-a-ton-of-time-on account). But then I put it on tumblr and FF.net because I needed to link it to a post and hey, people seemed to like it so here it is. Enjoy!

           She loses count of the days in that tiny white room.

            Sometimes she’ll try to communicate with Monty (though she stopped after a few days, the doors were completely soundproof), and sometimes a man dressed in a white suit, helmet completely covering his face, will come in and draw blood. All she sees is whiteness every day. No sun. No stars. No color except for the red blood pulled into the syringe from her forearm and the blue of the painting hung on her wall.

            Hours seem like days and days seem like eternities. Or maybe eternities feel like minutes and hours feel like seconds. She really can’t tell anymore.

            She’s dreamed of Finn bursting through the door to save her thousands of times. She’s dreamed that he runs in and sweeps her off her feet and kisses her, telling her that everything is going to be all right and that he loves her, and she says it back this time. She says it back because she’s lost him far too many times.

           But then she wakes up and she realizes that this time she’s not getting him back. And she feels like she wants to vomit and cry and scream all at the same time.

           For the first few weeks, she’d simply spent her time huddled up on her bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, letting her grief consume her. She didn’t know how many infinities passed her by, but sometime between the 60th meal and the Mountain Men cutting off five inches of her hair, she dreams of him.

           When she first sees his dark hair, she thinks he’s Finn. She thinks it’s another dream where he’s come to save her, to sweep her up in his arms like he did when she had been sick with the Grounder virus.

           But then he turns around and she gasps at the face before her.

           “Brave princess?” he sneers. “You’re acting like a child. _Pull it together_. How long are you going to wallow in your own misery rather than get up off your ass and keep moving?”

           His harsh words shock her into silence and she just stares at him, mouth agape. “You’re…you’re never in my dreams,” she whispers, her voice a breath on the nonexistent wind.

           “Well, obviously you need someone to snap you out of whatever spiral you’re in,” he responds. His eyes are dark and passionate, just the way she remembers them. There’s blood smeared across his cheek and bruises around his neck (she never did ask how he got them, he had brushed off the question too quickly) and she finds herself inexplicably wanting to run her hands through his dark, thick hair.

           “Spacewalker’s been babying you, hasn’t he? Telling you he’s going to save you?” her co-leader lets out a sigh. “He’s not. We’re both dead, Clarke. Do you remember what you told me that day when we were making the minefields around camp? Before the storage of food burned down?”

           Her eyes move behind him and she thinks back. “No one is coming down to save us,” she says softly. The radio silence from the Ark had told her that. The ash and bones that covered their camp told her that Finn wasn’t going to come sweeping in either.

           Suddenly, she felt Bellamy’s hands cupping her face, drawing her gaze back to him. His hands felt rough against her skin and he leaned so close that she could feel his warm breath breeze over her lips. His dark eyes held such intensity that it frightened her, drilling past her exterior and into her soul (her frightened, lost soul).

           “Brave princess,” he murmured, no mockery in his voice this time. Instead there was an emotion she couldn’t quite place, if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said that it was pleading, maybe even love. “Brave, brave princess. Save yourself.’

           She woke up sweating.

 

 

           Some days later, she managed to steal a spoon.

           It wasn’t much, but it was metal. She found an angle (right behind her headboard) where the cameras could barely see her and couldn’t see what she was doing, and in the early hours of the morning (when the lights in her room were off and she prayed that the monitors and guards were asleep) she went to that place and began filing the utensil’s handle against the rough metal post of her bed.

           She didn’t know how long it took (a few days? a month?) but soon enough her tiny spoon was sharp enough to be knife. Every night as she would lie in bed, she would go over the few self-defense moves Bellamy had taught her back at the camp. She had been reluctant to learn them, but he was so persistent it finally got to the point where she had agreed to spar with him just so he would stop annoying her about it.

           If only he could see her now.

           She bided her time, waiting for the opportune moment. Many times, she thought it was approaching, only for a last second complication to make her hesitate long enough to lose her window.

           Finally, one day, the door cracked open and she heard a guard shuffle in. He was dressed completely in white, a mask-helmet hybrid covering his face and he held a plate of food in one hand and a gun in the other. The gun caught her attention. He must be a new recruit because she had quickly realized that it was against their policy to bring weapons into the quarantined cells.

           If she could get the gun, she could give them hell to pay.

           She knew that it was now or never.

           He was leaning down to set the food on her bed when she attacked. Her arm swung back and she threw all of her weight forward, driving the tiny blade towards his neck where she knew his jugular vein would be.

           Except at the last second she heard him curse under his breath and catch her arm, stopping her knife inches away. She tried desperately to drive the weapon home, but he was simply too strong. He used her momentum to lean back and throw her off the bed, sending her tumbling to the ground.

           Letting out a gasp of pain, she saw stars as her head slammed against the floor. Rolling over, she looked up at the guard, who was now removing his helmet. Her breath was coming in quick wheezes, terror gripping her as she wondered what they would do with her now.

           “Well, shit, princess,” she heard a familiar voice say. “I guess I should’ve expected something like that from you. But, come on, Clarke. I taught you that move.”

           The helmet is gone and she sees the pair of dark brown eyes she had looked into so many times. His hair is sticking out in all directions and a crooked smirk graces his lips as she can’t help but let his name pass through hers.

           “Bellamy.”

           She doesn’t hesitate as she throws her arms around his shoulders and embraces him. “You’re alive,” she whispers. “You’re alive, oh my God, you’re alive.”

           He lets out a small laugh. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, princess.” He must have known the question she would ask next because he quickly says, “Finn is in the control room. The doors to all the quarantined rooms should be opening in about,” he pauses and looks at his watch. “Three…two…one…now.”

           Right on cue, she hears the sound of seventy-nine doors opening and a of the delinquent’s startled shouts. A mischievous smile growing across his face, Bellamy gestures for her to follow him and walks out into the hall.

           “All right, rise and shine everyone!” he bellows at the top of his lungs. “There is a class three security breach, this is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Come on, everyone, we’re busting you out of here.”

           Heads begin popping out as the Hundred recognize the voice of the leader they were so sure was dead. Excited shouts of “Bellamy!” and “He’s alive!” fill the corridor as they all file out behind him, chatting excitedly among themselves.

           Following closely behind, Clarke grabs his shoulder causing him to look back and slow down, but not stop. “I hate to rain on your parade,” she says so that only he can hear, “But how do you manage to get eighty kids outside of a highly securitized facility in broad daylight? I’m not saying that this was a bad plan…but this was a bad plan.”

           The roguish smile that had been playing across his features the entire time only grew as he walked, no, as he _strutted_ down the hall towards the exit. He walked through the door and took a sharp left, pulling out a small key-card from his pocket.

           “I’d assume that when the Mountain Men have prisoners, which can’t be very often, they normally move ninety percent of their weapons to a safe place just in case some of their captives escaped.”

           Sliding the card into the door, the hatch opened and seventy-nine wide-eyed teenagers peered into the chamber that was revealed. All of the walls were lined with rifles, and boxes of grenades, ammunition, smoke bombs, and every weapon Clarke could even imagine was piled high around the room. She looked around in shock, realizing that they had a legitimate chance of getting out with all the sleeping gas and guns that were before them.

           “Let’s show them what happens when they mess with the Hundred!” Bellamy yelled, his words jolting the kids into action as they cheered and raced into the weapons room, beginning to grab everything they could carry.

           The smirk on his face broke into an all out grin as he turned back and looked at Clarke. “Normally, they’d take precautions. But what the hell, what are a bunch of teenagers going to be able to do?”

           For the first time in far too many eternities, she laughed.

 


	2. but it won't be the same (without you here)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke discovers that Bellamy gave one last order to Miller before he died.

           She was sure she was as good as dead.

            With a three-hundred pound Ground running at her, spear aimed at her heart and no weapon of her own to defend herself with, she didn’t really see a way she could get out alive.

            The Grounder was only a few feet away from her when she heard the sickening sound of flesh being ripped apart and she saw a sword protrude out of his chest.

            As he fell to the ground, a dark skinned boy wearing a beanie stood from a kneeling position, holding a sword dripping with blood in his hand. For a moment, Clarke just gaped at Miller, wondering a.) why saving her life seemed to be a new hobby of his, and b.) how he had even known where she was in the first place.

            Kneeling down, her second-in-command wiped his sword on the grass before saying, “We should head back to camp.”

            They did. And both of them made a point not to speak of the incident.

            By the time they made it back, night had fallen and the sun’s light had long since died behind the trees. Monty and Jasper must have made a new batch of moonshine because the entire camp was abuzz with noise and drunken teenagers. Maybe it was good for all of them to be carefree for a few hours. Almost a week had passed since they had fought off the Grounders, and barely a smile had been cracked after that day.

            As soon as they stepped foot into camp, Clarke noticed something change behind Miller’s eyes and his jaw tightened. She was about to ask him what was wrong when he suddenly disappeared into the sea of bodies swarming around the camp.

            He hadn’t been the same since Bellamy died.

            But then again, neither had she.

            The light of the fire reminded her of him for some reason. Maybe it was all the conversations they had around that very fire in the dead of night, when everyone else was sleeping. She remembered the first night, the night after they had gone to the bunker. She had stayed up with him, cleaning guns until the early hours of the morning, long after the other delinquents who had been helping them had gone to sleep. She remembered talking about his sister, her father, the Grounders, Jaha, the people on the Ark, and just about everything under the moon. The thought of that night made her heart ache for his company.

            She found that she had wandered over towards the edge of camp, too lost in her own thoughts to realize that she had been followed. One second, her mind had been on Bellamy and how much she missed him, and the next she was pressed against the side of the drop ship’s metal shell, breath that smelled strongly of whiskey being blown in her face.

            “Hey, princess,” a boy breathed into her ear. His forearm was pressed against her throat, making it difficult to breathe and she shuddered at the nickname. It sounded distorted, twisted and insulting, not the way that Bellamy used to say it. “You wanna have some fun?”

            “I think I’m good,” she managed to choke out, the weight against her through increasing slightly.

            His hand that wasn’t holding her began to wander and she tried to squirm free. “Come on,” he purred. “Your king isn’t here to protect you anymore. Besides, I think a slut like you would want it.”

            She tried to fight him, but her punches were weak as her vision began to tunnel due to the fact he cutting off her supply of oxygen. She heard his laughter, and he continued to laugh until the weight suddenly disappeared from her throat and she let out a gasp, falling to the ground.

            Her vision began to clear, and she looked up to see Miller on top of the boy, a look of fury in his eyes as he repeatedly punched her would-be rapist in the face.

            “Don’t you touch her,” he yelled, a sort of rage in his voice that she had only ever heard in Bellamy’s before. “Don’t. You. Ever. Fucking. Touch. Her. Again!” He accented each word with a punch.

            Clarke just sat there in shock for a couple seconds before she managed to snap herself out of it. Running towards Miller, she grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him off of the now unconscious boy.

            “Miller,” she whispered. Then a little bit louder, she said, “Miller, stop!”

            When he looked at her, his eyes were wild and almost unrecognizable. The two of them stayed frozen for a moment, her blue eyes staring into his wild brown ones. Then he ripped himself away and all but ran out of camp.

            What could she do but run after him?

           

            She finally caught up to him near the edge of the cliff where Charlotte jumped. He was sitting on the edge, staring up into the sky at the stars. She stopped in her tracks and didn’t dare move.

            He snorted. “I’m not going to jump, Clarke.”

            Trying to disguise her small sigh of relief, she walked forward and sat next to him, her feet dangling over the ledge. They sat in silence for what seems like hours, just staring up at the stars (she briefly wondered which one the Ark could be).

            When she finally gathered the courage to speak, she struggled not to stumble over her words. “What are you doing, Miller?” her voice is much softer than she’d like it to be. “Not letting me patrol, saving me from the Grounder, checking to see if I need help with anything, constantly protecting me…”

            His answer was not what she expected. “I follow orders,” he said miserably. “It’s all I’ve done, it’s all I’ve ever known. Even back on the Ark, I was never in charge of anything. All I ever did was follow orders.”

            Her mind flashed back to what Bellamy had said when he was planning to run away. “Keep Miller close,” were his words. “The others listen to him.” She had commented that he seemed to trust him. At the time, Bellamy had just brushed it off, but she knew better. She knew that if a hard decision ever had to be made, Miller was the only person (besides herself of course) that Bellamy would trust to make it.  Miller was the only one he would order to do an important job because he was the only one he trusted to do it right.

           A blossom of panic bloomed in her chest as she realized what that important job might have been, as she realized what order he might have given that would be much easier to carry out if Miller was constantly close to her. “Miller,” she whispered, trying to calm her pounding heart. “Give me a straight answer.” He didn’t answer and she asked again, this time adding, “that’s an order” onto it.  When his mouth stayed firmly shut she finally lost herself in her hysteria, all of the fear and misery of losing the two boys that mattered most to her seep into her voice as she yelled, “Why are you protecting me?”

            _“Because he asked me to, damn it!”_

            He yelled his answer and her heart stopped beating in her chest.

            There is a moment of fragile silence between them before he buried his face in his hands and murmured, “In the foxhole, the night the Grounders attacked, he told me that if he didn’t get out alive, I was supposed to protect you at all costs.”

           Looking up at her, Clarke can see all the guilt and pain in the boy’s eyes as he continued, “He pretended it was a ‘just-in-case’ request, but the way he asked it…like…like it was his dying wish or something… I asked him what the hell he was planning and he said that he had to save as many kids as he could, some bullshit about atoning for his sins or something. When the Grounders were marching towards our foxhole, he told me to go.” The tears begin to well up in his eyes and the look on his face is so tormented, Clarke can feel her still stationary heart shatter. “He ordered me to survive, to survive and protect you and to forget about him. It was the last thing he wanted and for the first time in my life, I just can’t do it right.”

           She is trying to stop herself from shaking. She had considered Bellamy a friend, but this? This was more than she ever would’ve expected from him. That he would be willing to sacrifice himself to save as many kids as possible. That he would order someone to protect her.

           Suddenly, it all came together in her mind. During the battle, when she had run out of the drop ship, she had yelled at Bellamy to run away, to run towards safety, but instead he had picked up a gun and run straight back into the battle. And it was only after Bellamy was obviously not going to stop fighting that Miller pulled her away to safety. She felt a painfully sharp surge of both love and hate for her dark-haired co-leader.

“When that boy attacked me,” Clarke finally said, referring to earlier that night, “he said, ‘Your king isn’t here to protect you anymore’. What did he mean, Miller?”

           A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You see, I can’t do my job right because you know. You always _know_. And yet, somehow when Bellamy was doing it, defending you that is, you never seemed to pick up on it.”

           In that moment, she swore that Earth’s oxygen supply just ran out because her lung collapse on themselves and she _can’t fucking breathe._

           “What?” she manages to choke out.

           This time he lets out a bark of laughter. “He protected you. If anyone tried to touch you…well lets just say it was never pretty. There were a couple of particularly nasty incidents he made me promise never to speak of. Sometimes I wondered what he would do if he had to chose between you and Octavia. I think it could’ve gone either way.”

           “Don’t be ridiculous.”

           He gives her a twist of his lips in an attempt to smile. It looked painful. “Have I ever been ridiculous before, Clarke?”

           She sits there for an eternity, trying to understand the information just given to her. Bellamy Blake, protecting her. Bellamy Blake fighting off people who wanted to hurt her. Bellamy Blake _caring_ about her. For some reason, the thought both sends shivers down her spine and gives her a feeling of butterflies in her stomach.

           “Did he love me?” she asked softly, half hoping he heard her, half hoping he didn’t. It’s a question she’s terrified of and she didn’t know what possessed her to ask it. If he didn’t…she couldn’t explain the way her heart seemed to ache at the thought. And if he did, she felt her stomach turned over itself at the realization that she never told him how much he meant to her. Either answer frightened her more than any Grounder or radioactive beast could.

           “I asked him once,” Miller answered. “He told me to, and I quote, ‘mind my own fucking business’. But he never denied it.”  After a while he said, “And even if he didn’t, he still cared about you, I’d say more than anyone else on earth. I mean, isn’t that enough?”

            _Yes,_ she thought to herself. _Yes, it is._ But she didn’t say it out loud.

           After a while, she found her voice long enough to say, “Miller?”

           He looked at her, tears he had not bothered to wipe away staining his face (she is relatively certain hers did not look much better). “Yeah?” he replies.

           “You’re doing all right.”

           He didn’t answer, but she could see the gratitude in his eyes.

 

 

           Four days later, when a dead man with dark hair walks into their camp, Miller feels the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

           Clarke does not hesitate to run into his arms and kiss him.

           And Bellamy Blake does not hesitate to wrap his arms around her waist, pull her close, and tell her that he’s never going to leave her again.

           Maybe they can find a happy ending on Earth after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little drabble I've had lying around. I decided that I'm going to make this a collection of any Bellarke drabbles under 5,000 words I write rather than posting them all separately. Feedback is appreciated!


	3. scorching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time he saw her he felt: everything will burn.

The first time he saw her he felt: everything will burn.

 

She stands there, so strong and proud, telling him that he _can’t_ open the door to the drop ship because for all they know the air is toxic and will kill them all. He scoffs, mocking this girl who doesn’t seem to know that they were sent down to die anyway; it doesn’t matter if it’s by the air or radiation or whatever monsters lurk in the savage place their ancestors once called home. She does not speak again, but he looks at her and sees her hesitation, sees that she wants to.

 

He knows from that moment that things will not go easily with this girl.

 

He knows that everything will burn.

 

When she comes back from Mount Weather and tells the Hundred they can’t take off their bracelets, he knows that things will not go as he planned. She is persuasive, but his silver tongue is much more captivating than her pleading honesty.

 

He tells them they’re not criminals (they are). He tells them that they are controlling their own destiny (they aren’t, he is). And as he turns away, he looks at her and feels her locking with his.

 

Her grey eyes give off a heat he fears, a heat that he knows can change everything.

 

That night he dreams of burning. It is not the first time. It will not be the last either. And as he burns, as he feels the flames licking against his skin, he looks into the fire and he sees a pair of grey eyes. He wakes up in a cold sweat.

 

Later she tells him to follow her as they go to rescue a boy who’s as good as dead already.

 

He doesn’t know why he does.

 

He doesn’t know why he catches her or why the feeling of her fingertips wrapped around his wrist seems to set his veins alight. He doesn’t know why he hold onto her like she is the only thing keeping him alive rather than simply letting go and watching this girl who will destroy everything fall to her death. He knows if she lives, everything will burn.

 

But then again his dreams of fire have always been painfully pleasurable.

 

It isn’t until Atom that he realizes she is stronger than she seems.

 

It isn’t until he watches the meteor shower of bodies from the Ark that he realizes he is weaker than he seems.

 

And it isn’t until they capture the Grounder that he realizes that she makes him stronger. It isn’t until then that he realizes the full extent of the affect she has on him. It isn’t until then that he realizes she isn’t the pure, perfect angel Spacewalker makes her out to be. No, she had her own darkness as well, but she hides it, locks it away in fear that if she lets it out, it will destroy her.

 

She doesn’t realize that it’s not her that will burn. It’s everyone else.

 

It isn’t until they capture the Grounder that he realizes she can set him on fire.

 

He strikes the Grounder again, but stops, looking at her. He sees her shaking as she attempt to control the darkness inside of her, to hold it back just enough so that her light only becomes dim, not dark. He sees her struggling, and for some inexplicable reason, he can’t stand it. He offers her a way out, but she doesn’t take it. She tells him to continue.

 

When she suddenly tells him to stop and looks as if she’s going to vomit, he lashes out, hating the darkness within him, the cold that he feels chill his soul. “Do you want him to live or not?” he snaps, and instantly regrets his words, watching her features harden as a new resolve washes over her.

 

“Do it.”

 

She gives him a nod, and with that one gesture, he feels his blood begin to boil as something animalistic begins to burn in his belly. He feels his skin crawling off of his body as he lets go and becomes something inhuman, something merciless and cruel. He lets the darkness inside of him take control and he drives the stake through the Grounders hand. The groan of pain makes his heart beat faster and in some dark, twisted recess of his mind, he feels a thrum of excitement and pleasure at being the cause of such pain.

 

He feels nauseous.

 

He feels free.

 

He feels as if he is on fire.

 

He comforts her afterwards. He tells her that who they are, and who they need to be to survive are very different things. He knows why he does it, but he refuses to admit it to himself, denying the very reason he suddenly feels the need to make sure the girl who has caused him so much trouble will be all right.

 

It’s because he wants to feel her fire again. He wants to feel it more than anything else in the world and he knows that it will destroy him.

 

Three days later she returns the favor outside of an abandoned bunker, the body of a traitor delinquent with a dud bullet in his neck lying a few feet away. When he comforted her, he did it because he was selfish, because he wanted to be set ablaze.

 

He wonders if she’s doing this because she wants to taste his darkness once more.

 

He finds himself trying to find her fire on his own, trying to draw it out. In their fights and their disagreements, he lives for the feeling of heat coursing throughout his body, waking him up to every sensation as he feels her scorch him with her every touch, every glance and every word. He pushes her to let go, to become the flames inside of her.

 

As she walks tall and proud towards the Grounder princess on the bridge during their failed peace meeting, he sees all that she can be and for a moment, it frightens him.

 

She can be more than a candle, more than a light in his darkness.

 

She can be a forest fire.

 

Hell, she can be an inferno.

 

And she’ll devour everything in her path.

 

But when the bomb on the bridge explodes, he finally realizes that he couldn’t have begun to imagine what he’s released. He watches as she looks up at the cloud of smoke, skin still pale and sickly from the virus and her eyes grey like the ash flying in the sky. She speaks and her words haunt his dreams.

 

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds.”

 

She has become death, destroyer of worlds.

 

She will burn everything.

 

God above, what has he done?

 

Murphy hangs him and he feels as if it is reckoning for his sins. He feels as if this is his punishment for unleashing a fire such as her on the world. The noose tightens around his neck and he decides that there are worse punishments than death.

 

He should have known that oblivion would be too kind of a sentence for him to receive.

 

His princess comes back to him, and from the second she runs into camp, he knows something is different about her. She looks like the darkness inside her is stronger, but the light inside her is brighter as well. She looks as if she’s done the unthinkable and does not regret it. She looks like in the span of a few short hours, she has become more than she has ever been before.

 

As they stand in the drop ship, wondering how they hell they’re going to survive this retribution of the Grounders, she speaks.

 

“I don’t want to build a bomb. I want to blast off.”

 

The order that she is brings balance to his chaos. She is light where he is darkness, fire where he is ice, kindness where he is cruelty. But it’s times like these that he sees her own anarchy leaking from between the seams of her skin, crawling out from under her nails and radiating from her mouth as if her lungs were infested with mayhem and every breath she breathes is destruction. He sees her own chaos mix with her order and god, it looks unholy. It looks like blood. It looks like war.

 

It looks like fire.

 

And he watches as the rest of the Hundred look to her and are set ablaze the same way he was the night they tortured the Grounder; the night she scorched him and turned his blood to flames.

 

He feels pain as the Grounder’s fist connects with his stomach. He feels heat as he hears her call his name. She tells him to run, to come to safety, but he doesn’t. He is a soldier, a leader, a protector and a man who has lost everything but himself. He lets the fire beneath his skin consume him.

 

He watches as she pulls back, as Miller drags her towards the drop ship. He watches as the door closes and sees heartbreak in those eyes that are grey like ash, like the sea. He remembers the first time he saw her and felt everything would burn. He remembers the first time they spoke, arguing just like they always do, the first time he opened the door and the sun streamed through the hatch blinding them all. As she closes the hatch and he sees her for the last time, he remembers the first time he saw her.

 

And then everything burns.

 

**(A/N Wow, I actually kind of like this one. It's meant to be more of a drabble than anything else. Unbetaed (I felt like[blackravenswing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blackravenswing/pseuds/blackravenswing/works) could use a little surprise) so sorry for any grammar mistakes and/or typos. Oh, and inspired by [this](http://marysuepoots.tumblr.com/post/90590164704/the-first-time-he-looked-at-her-he-felt) tumblr post. Feedback is appreciated! Check me out on [tumblr ](most-recent-obsessions.tumblr.com)and [fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5549839/) if you want! Thanks for reading!)**


	4. home (it's from where we start)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke tries to rediscover what and where home is.

 

* * *

  _“I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.”_

― Thomas Wolfe,  _You Can't Go Home Again_

* * *

 

“You aren’t prisoners, you’re our guests,” Dante tells her. He looks at her with such sincerity in his eyes and she tastes bitterness on her tongue. Because he has truth in his eyes but falsehoods on his lips and it hurts her, it hurts her that someone can lie so well. (It’s a talent that comes only with practice.)

He gives her a box of art tools. He gives her the only thing she’s ever wanted. He offers her comfort and happiness and blissful, idyllic even, ignorance. He gives her a home.

(It is not a home.)

She takes his gift and his lies and his innocence and she escapes.

(Home is hard. Home is work. Home is guilt and war and home is not easy. If it were, it wouldn’t be home.)

She climbs through forests. She bathes in mud. She watches a woman rip a tracker out from beneath her skin with her teeth. (Anya wants home as much as she does.) She walks and runs and climbs until her feet can barely hold her and it hurts. It hurts so much and she doesn’t know if she can go on, but she does. (She wants to get home more than she has wanted anything in her life.)

And when she sets her foot on the charred dirt of the Hundred’s camp, all she feels is despair.

(This is not home.)

She tastes ash in her mouth and smells the ever-present stench of burned bodies in her nostrils. It takes all she has within her not to look at the skulls lining the wall (Jonas. Maggie. Elliot. Harper.). She refuses to wonder if they were her enemies or her friends. (All gone. Because she pulled the lever. Because she left them to die.) She tries not to think about them, and she fails miserably.

(This is not home.)

(This hurts.)

Then, something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. There is writing on the wall, (she prays that she is not dreaming it) and as she draws closer to it, she sees the white smears, making all of whatever message was left illegible except for one word.

_Clarke_.

She wants to laugh.

_Clarke_.

She wants to cry.

_Clarke_.

(This is not home.)

_Clarke_.

(But somewhere out there is.)

When Anya stands, she fights her. (She wants to she her home.) Through the pain of hair being pulled and the blood dripping down the side of her head, she fights with a new vigor, a new drive that is more determined, more resolute than anything else she’s experienced before. (Dear God above, she wants to go _home_.)

And she wins.

She _wins_.

Her feet are moving of their own accord. (She sees the weather balloon up in the sky.) She is going home.

In the dead of night, she arrives with Anya by her side. (“ _You fought well,_ ” the grounder princess says. Clarke takes it as the highest compliment.) As she cuts her prisoner’s bounds, she grasps the woman’s hand.

“I’m not like you,” she says. ( _“I know you want to go home_ ,” her eyes say.) There is a moment of hesitation where Anya looks at her, surprise etched across her features.

“The commander was my second. I can get a hearing,” the grounder replies. ( _“Thank you,”_ her eyes say.)

She watches as the woman she once (and perhaps still) called an enemy. (She watches her unsteady steps as they take her home.) 

She screams when the sound of guns ring out through the air. (Blood.) She cries as the woman drops. (There is blood everywhere.) She shouts as the bullet rips through her own flesh. (This is not home.)

(This _hurts_.)

They drag her into camp. (She was a fool.) Her mother tells her everything is going to be all right. (Such a damn fool.) Everything is not all right. (This is not home.) Everything is falling apart. (She doesn’t know what home is anymore.)

(She doesn’t know what home should be.)

That night she cries and wonders if she can ever have a home on this hell of a planet. She wonders if happiness can ever be found, if she can ever have joy. She wonders why finding home has to be so hard. Home should not be like this. Home _cannot_ be like this.

(She doesn’t know what home should be.)

She is running back and forth between Raven’s machine room and the tower when she stops dead in her tracks. (From across the camp he stops dead in his tracks too.) Seeing the diagram of freckles and the mop of black hair she never thought she’d glimpse again is almost too much, and she feels tears welling up in her eyes.

She's seen him a thousand times. (She feels as if she is seeing him for the first time.)

Next thing she knows, both of them are moving. (They collide halfway.)

His arms are warm around her and she can feel his heartbeat through her own chest. (Its beating is synchronized with her own.)

“ _Bellamy,”_ is all she can whisper. “ _Bellamy_.”

His arms tighten around her, squeezing the life out of her as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. (She thinks she hears a sob wrack through him.) He smells of forest and sweat and desolation, and all she can think of is the feeling she has growing inside of her chest that is so unlike any feeling she has ever felt before. 

“You’re home,” he whispers. 

(Home is hardship.)

(Home is sacrifice.)

(Home is wearisome.)

(Home is suffering.)

(Home is hard-won.)

(Home is worth it.)

“I know,” she replies.

(Home is him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, in the light of the huge freakout happening on tumblr at the moment, I figured I'd use the hysteria to break my writer's block, so here's this little guy! The title is taken from Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot. The exact quote is, "Home is where one starts from." Reviews are welcome!


	5. pick it all up (and start again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cross between a sob and a wail escapes her throat and she can't stop crying because somehow his arms are latching around her and it feels like heaven and hell at the same time.
> 
> aka everyone else is doing a post 2x08 fic so I might as well too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr.

Her hands are shaking when she returns to camp. Raven’s screams echo in her ears, and she sees the older girl collapsed on the ground, sobbing, with Bellamy rocking her back and forth, whispering words of comfort in her ears. Neither of them seem to notice her and she can’t help but feel grateful for it.

In front of her, the sea of people seems to part, making a pathway just for her. Behind her, the grounders carry the body of the boy she once loved (still _does_ love) with a stab wound in his abdomen. The looks of her people are those of looks cast upon the condemned (she can’t help but feel as if she deserves it).

The camp is unnaturally silent, the only sound being Raven’s sobs and that of boots hitting the ground (the ground that takes, and takes, and takes, but never gives back).

“ _You._ ”

The word echoes across the camp and before Clarke can realize what’s going on, Raven is flying at her and landing a punch to the side of her jaw.

“You promised nothing would happen to him!” she screams before there are guards all around her, pulling her back from the fair-haired shell of a woman. “You promised he’d be okay! You lied. _You killed him_.”

“Take her to the cells,” Abby commands immediately. “She needs time to calm down.” As the guards drag the girl who had become a second daughter to the chancellor away, she turns towards the only family she has and says, “Clarke, are you okay?”

She stands there for a moment, completely in shock with her hand touching the already-forming bruise on the bottom of her jaw. “I-I just need some time,” she manages to stutter out before all but fleeing to the med bay.

She slams the door, locks it and lets her back slide against the metal, her hand coming up to her mouth as she tries to stifle the sobs. Unable to stop shaking, she notices that Finn’s blood is still on her hands and she lets out a small shriek.

She sits there for a while; just letting the tears come. When she finally finds the strength to stand, she walks towards the water basin and begins to slowly wash the dried blood from underneath her fingers.

The water in the basin turns red, and the sponge she’s using slowly becomes rougher and rougher against her skin. The movement is almost calming, back and forth and back and forth, until she pulls her hands out of the water and realizes that the blood is still there.

“No,” she whispers in horror. “ _No._ ”

Her movements become more and more frantic and her hands begin to hurt, but she ignores it. By the third time she looks at her hands, and realizes the blood still isn’t off, she begins to break down, the feeling of the rough material ripping off her skin under the water not hindering her as she desperately scrubs her hands.

Her whole body is shaking the water in the basin is turning red from her own blood when she hears a voice say, “ _God,_ Clarke, what are you doing?” and feels strong arms wrapping around her and pulling her away from the basin.

She thrashes at first, but then falls to her knees. A cross between a sob and a wail escapes her throat and she can’t stop crying because somehow his arms are latching around her and it feels like heaven and hell at the same time. Bellamy rocks her back and forth, just like he did with Raven, except unlike the mechanic, she turns her body into him and buries her face into his chest, her red hands clawing at his shirt and pulling him closer (she feels as if she can pull him into her, she can have the strength to keep breathing). “How did you even get in here,” she sobs into his chest.

“All the locks are broken, princess. You of all people should know that.”

The sound of the nickname brings a fresh wave of sobs from her, but it does not cause her as much pain as she thought it would (she later realizes that while Finn first coined the nickname, Bellamy made it his own, claimed it, and despite all that happened it would always be Bellamy’s).

They stay like that for an eternity. Her sobs eventually slow and he just continues to hold her close to him. He does not try to give her words of comfort and she wants to thank him for it.

Instead when she opens her mouth, all she can say is, “It’s my fault. Everyone I love dies and it’s my fault. “

“Clarke, what the fuck are you talking about?”

She pushes her face into him even more, her voice becoming muffled as she says, “Finn, my dad, Wells. They’re all dead because of me. I’m like a time bomb, Bellamy. I…I don’t want anyone else I love to die.” Her words have an underlying meaning that she knows he understands: _I don’t want you to die_.

His voice overlaps with hers, not wasting a moment before he says, “ _Bullshit,_ ” and pulls away. He holds her face in his hands and makes her look at him. When her eyes meet his, she sees the tear stains on his face and she wants to kick herself (Did she think that he would not be hurting too? Did she think that losing the boy whom he had rescued so many times, whom he had crossed uncrossable lines to save, would not rip his soul out just as much as it did hers?). “Do you hear me, Clarke? _Bullshit_. You’re on Earth. Everything here sucks and people die. Finn’s actions were going to have consequences, and you saved him, you gave him a quick death. That’s all anyone could have asked for.”

There is a long silence before she whispers, “I tried to take his place.”

“I thought you would,” he replies with a sigh. “And believe me, the entire camp was praying that Lexa wouldn’t let you.”

“It should have been me,” she snarls. “He killed those villagers while trying to find _me_.”

“You want to play the blame game?” he asks. “ _I_ was the one who let him go with a gun in his hands, _I_ knew he was unhinged and I let him go anyways. It should have been _me_ tied to that stake.”

 _Not you,_ her mind screams, but she tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the sense of panic that washes over her as she thinks of him lying there, blood pouring from his stomach. _Not you. Never you._

His thumb gently brushes across her cheek, “We all share some of the blame. But that doesn’t mean that he didn’t _chose_ to do what he did.”

Her shoulders sag in defeat and her head drops despite his hands holding her face. “I killed him,” she whispers, trying to ignore how broken her voice sounds, how weak she feels. “I _miss_ him.”

One of his hands drops and the other moves to her hair, and he presses their foreheads together, tears streaming down both their faces. “Me too, princess,” he replies, his voice cracking every so slightly. “Me too.”

* * *

 

The nightmares that follow are so hard to bear. She’s lost count of how many times she’s seen Finn’s eyes staring back at her in her dreams, asking her why she didn’t save him.

And she’s lost count of how many times Bellamy wakes her up from them.

It’s become a bit of a ritual. Every night, she goes to sleep. Every night, she dreams of Finn. Every night, she wakes to the feeling of rough hands shaking her and the half-asleep voice of her co-leader telling her to wake up.

His fingers will bury themselves in her hair and he holds her tightly, no words of comfort coming from his mouth. Her sobs are muffled into his shirt and his chin is resting on top of her head as he just holds her.

Perhaps it is better this way. No words of comfort asked for, none offered. (It feels good to have someone who is able to just sit in the silence with her.) 

She realizes that he’s the only thing keeping her sane.

It’s frightening at first, to depend on someone so wholly that the very idea of losing them makes you nauseous. But eventually she sees how much he depends on her as well, and she feels almost comforted by it.

Is it healthy? Hell no. But it keeps them alive and lucid, so why change anything?

One night, after a particularly bad nightmare (this time she didn’t get to say goodbye, and the boy with the long, dark hair was given the pain of 18 deaths), he is holding her in his arms when he says, “You know, you should really just move into my tent.”

Her mind is instantly diverted from her dreams as she nearly falls off the bed. “ _What?_ ” she asks, staring at him with wide eyes.

The idiot has the gall to shrug in response (like he was suggesting they send out a hunting party the next day, or that they save the fur from the cougar for a blanket). “I mean, I spend most nights in here anyways, despite the fact that my tent is bigger, neither of us really have all that much stuff so we could probably fit into one tent just fine. It’d open up more room anyways.”

She doesn’t respond for a moment, just stares at him with a stunned expression on her face. She realizes that her mouth is open, but she’s too busy studying the emotions that are flickering across his features to close it.

He looks increasingly uncomfortable the longer she does not answer. “Whatever,” he mumbles, looking down at the ground. “It was just a thought.”

There is a beat, then Clarke replies, “No. No! No, it’s a good idea.” She turns her body and lays back into his arms her back resting against his chest. “I’ll get my stuff in the morning.”

She can’t help but wonder if he’s smiling, or if it’s just wishful thinking.

* * *

Raven absolves her eventually. It does not pass between them in words as much as a single look.

They had rarely come into contact, Raven throwing herself into her work as a mechanic and Clarke slaving tirelessly over injured souls. But one day, their eyes meet from across the camp, and there is a moment where Clarke’s throat tightens and tears spring into her eyes.

Then Raven just gives her a simple nod and turns back to fixing whatever tool she was working on.

The mechanic does not forgive the princess, but she does not blame her either.

That is enough for Clarke.

“You talked to her, didn’t you?” she questions Bellamy later. He’s sitting by the gate, eating an apple while watching the woods for any sign of Grounders or Mountain Men.

“I nudged her in the right direction,” he replies.

She sits down next to him and stares out into the forest. “ I killed her only family. I don’t deserve her forgiveness.”

“A. I don’t think you have it. And B. you did what you had to do, Clarke. We’ve been over this.”

“And we’ve agreed to disagree,” she says. It’s true, they’ve argued about it many times. She can tell that he still doesn’t like letting her take the blame onto herself, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. Besides, she had held the knife. She had killed him. His blood was on her hands.

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to bother her as much as it used to.

Oh, she still feels sick to her stomach at the thought, and she still cries herself to sleep some nights, but it no longer feels as if the world is caving in around her. She knows that he would want her to be happy, and dwelling on his death would not make her happy.

“We all share the blame,” Bellamy says, pulling her out of her thoughts. She stands and places her hand on his shoulder, giving him a slight squeeze.

“I know,” she says softly, and when he turns to look at her, she smiles.

It is the first time she has smiled in a long while.

* * *

They break the 47 out.

Then they bomb Mount Weather.

It had been Raven’s idea (all of Raven’s ideas are a little violent nowadays), and she had made the bombs herself. She had presented good reasons, they had more technology than the Arkers, they made the Reapers, they would never stop being dangerous. But all in all, Clarke knew that it was, in a way, vengeance for Finn.

It was because Mount Weather took the 48 that he went on his rampage that ultimately led to his death. This was simply her way of blaming someone she could actually hurt.

For the first time, Clarke was okay with it.

They had just broken out all of their people, Lexa had sent a messenger saying that the had cleaned out the harvest room, and they were just getting ready to detonate the bomb when she noticed that Bellamy was not there.

“Bellamy?” she calls out into the woods.

“I wouldn’t detonate those bombs if I were you,” a voice sounds from behind her, and she whirls around, pointing her gun at the man in a protective suit and gasmask.

Her heart stops in her chest as he pushes Bellamy to his knees and presses the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. The dark haired man puts his hands in the air and his eyes are, telling, no, _screaming_ at Clarke to just detonate the bombs.

“Let him go, Cage,” she hisses, fury courses through her body, making her blood run hot. “Let him go, or so help me God, I will blow you all to hell.”

Cage just chuckles. “Protective of this one, are you?” he jeers, his voice mocking her. Bellamy winces as he drives the gun further against his head. “Strange, he wasn’t one in the mountain. Is he someone you met recently? Or was he just one that we missed?”

“Don’t worry about me, princess,” he says. “Blow ‘em all to hell. Make sure the next time he sees his people, they’re all in pieces.”

“—Or was he one that had you so convinced that your people were still alive? Was he the one you convinced yourself was alive because you knew you couldn’t live without him?”

“I said let him _go,_ Cage,” she snarls, trying to still her trembling hands.

The man smiled, a gesture that held no happiness. His finger tightened around the trigger to his gun and Clarke couldn’t stop the sharp breath that she drew in. “I know you have the detonator, Clarke,” he says. “Lower the gun, take it out, and set it on the ground. Then, I’ll think about sparing your friend.

She slowly lowers the gun, and reaches into her pocket, pulling out the detonator. As she kneels down to set it on the ground, she stops as her eyes meet her co-leaders.

“Clarke,” he says. His eyes are steely and yet pleading at the same time. “This isn’t your fault.”

There is an eternity of silence, and when Clarke finally speaks, her voice is so soft and quiet and scared  (so scared of what he’s about to do) she hates herself for it.

“B-Bellamy?”

Then his body jerks and there’s a gunshot and he drops.

And she screams. Oh, how she screams.

She pulls the trigger and watches as Cage falls back, but she keeps pulling it, emptying the entire round into him. Then she drops the gun and runs towards the only thing that has kept her from losing her mind.

He slowly sits up as she nears him, his hand cupped against his neck where the bullet grazed him and blood streaming between his fingers, and he opens his arms as she crashes into him.

“What _the fuck_ were you thinking?” she sobs. “You could’ve _died_.”

He holds her, one arms wrapped around her waist and one hand still holding his neck. “’I’m okay, princess,” he says. “I’m okay.”

And for the first time since Finn died, the nickname doesn’t remind her of death, it reminds her of life.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

A few hours later, they’re sitting in the med bay and she’s bandaging his neck. The pale cloth is a startling contrast against his dark skin and she can’t help but notice the freckles around his face at such a close proximity 

When she pulls away, she looks at him and says, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.”

A wry smile passes his lips. “I’ll try.”

She slaps his shoulder and scowls. “I’m serious, Bellamy. If you had died…” her voice cracks and she stops, looking down, unable to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. “ _Hey_.” He reaches out and grabs her hands and envelops them in his own (she choses to stare at his hands instead of his face). “I didn’t.”

Finally, she looks up, blinking back tears. “But what if you had?” she whispers. “What if you had and my dreams are _you_ asking me why I didn’t save you instead of Finn. What if it was you?”

He looks speechless for a moment, just staring at her. Though he had often woken her up from nightmares, he had never asked what they were about. She guesses now he knows.

She forces a small smile and tries to ignore the tears pouring down her face as she looks down at his hands once again. “You know, right after he died I tried putting other people in his place. My mom. Raven. Octavia. Myself. Even Wells. I would have given anything to bring him back. Or _anyone_.” She forces herself to look up and meet his eyes, and she hates how much her voice breaks as she says, “Except you. I could put anyone else on the stake. I could push the knife through anyone else. But not you. I couldn’t do it with you.” 

He opens his mouth, as if he is trying to say something, but then closes it. Their eyes just stay locked for a long time, trying to communicate things that cannot be put into words. Finally, she finds her voice. 

“You’re the only thing that matters to me anymore,” she murmurs. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel like I can keep going, like I can start over. When he died, you were the only one who was able to make everything seem okay. _I need_ you, Bellamy. Don’t leave me alone on this hell of a planet.”

He looks at her and she is afraid, she fears his answer.

“Never,” he says.

All is right with the world.

**(A/N Thank you to those who prompted me to do this on tumblr! Sorry, it's unbetaed and barely proofread so there may be some typos. It was fun to write though, and I hope I got everything you wanted in! Follow me on FanFiction at[viansian](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5549839/) or on [tumblr](viansian.tumblr.com)! Review are welcome.)**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from 'Medicine' by Daughter.


	6. we've miles to go (before we can sleep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had discovered a dying Jaha when they first returned the decimated camp, his side blown to bits and blood streaming from between his teeth. “The City of Light,” he had whispered, his dying breath pushing the words past his lips like the last breeze of autumn. “Get the survivors to the City of Light.”

            **Notes:**

Tumblr prompt by rashaka: Clarke and Bellamy trek to the City of Light. Not even going to lie, this was super fun to write. Title taken from [Where We Belong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uH4juxVscts) by Thriving Ivory (go listen to it  _right now_ ) and "[Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171621) by Robert Frost.

* * *

 

Clarke sometimes wonder if it all was worth it; if their coming down to Earth, their very survival was worth all the suffering. She wonders if they all would’ve been better off dying clean, painless deaths of suffocation on the Ark rather than the brutal ones they are given here on the ground.

She spends most of her nights wondering, wondering if saving the 47 was worth it, if saving her friends was worth the lives of so many.

Oh, their mission had gone without a hitch. They hadn’t lost a single delinquent. The only problem was that it had been a distraction. It had all been a _fucking_ distraction and she will never forgive herself for not seeing it.

While she was off rescuing her friends, Mount Weather was bombing Camp Jaha.

They had returned, triumphant and victorious, to a burning camp of only 187 survivors where there had previously been almost a thousand. They had lost so, so many lives.

(Kane. Jaha. Byrne. _Her mother._ )

Mount Weather had accomplished their goal; the sky people had lost all their leaders, their alliance with the Grounders was null and void as the rescue mission was over, and the remaining Ark survivors had no other option but to turn to a barely 18-year-old and a former janitor as their new co-chancellors.

It did not take a mental giant to realize that Camp Jaha was no longer their home; hell, Clarke didn’t think the forests were ever really their home either (despite Bellamy’s speech before the Grounder attack).

Home. What was home? Could they ever really find a place of safety on this planet full of danger and trials?

They had discovered a dying Jaha when they first returned the decimated camp, his side blown to bits and blood streaming from between his teeth. “ _The City of Light_ ,” he had whispered, his dying breath pushing the words past his lips like the last breeze of autumn. “ _Get them to the City of Light, across the deadzone._ ” He had died right there in the dirt, and with only a glace to Bellamy, she had known that the decision was already made. They would go to the City of Light.

She had cried that night. Bellamy had wrapped his arms around her and told her to save her tears. Where they were going, they were going to need all the water they could get.

She didn’t expect the journey to be easy. But then again, she never expected it to be so damn hard either. 

The days were hot as hell and the nights were cold as ice, and try as she might, she never felt prepared for them. She had swallowed more sand in an hour than she had in her lifetime and she could feel the grains scratching at her cornea, making her eyes water.

Thankfully, Monty discovers a solution to the constant onslaught of sand. He shows them how to tear the blankets they carried with them into scarf-like pieces and wrap them around their heads and mouths, protecting them from the sun and sand simultaneously. 

They all worship Monty for a few days after that.

In the end, Clarke is glad they packed as much water as they did and rationed it like old, stingy misers holding on to their last few pennies. If they hadn’t, they would have run out long ago, and frankly, she’d take the everlasting thirst and itch in the back of her throat over death any day.

 Leading is harder than it used to be. (She cries more often than she’d like to. He always finds her and he always tells her to save her tears; they need to save their water.) She sees the skeptical glances the adults give her when she announces that they will only be resting six hours a day, instead of their normal eight, and that it will be only during the hottest hours of the day. She hears the voice call out, asking why she got to make the decisions.

Luckily, she sees Bellamy stiffen next to her and yell back into the crowd if anyone has any better ideas.

Everything is always changing, a constant flow of unpredictability and chaos. Everything is always changing, but he stays the same (it is a constant she could not be more grateful for).

Sometime they break their own rules and rest at night, allowing themselves to truly sleep under the stars, without the noonday sun beating down on them. Well, most allow themselves to sleep. Clarke doesn’t. Clarke never does.

And if Clarke doesn’t sleep, neither does Bellamy.

She feels guilty for it sometimes, that he’ll come to her in the dead of night and wrap his blanket around her shoulders while sitting down next to her, staring up at the stars. She sometimes tries to protest, telling him that he needs to rest, that he shouldn’t feel obligated to stay with her.

He snorts and tells her that she’s never been able to make him do something he didn’t want to do. (She doesn’t know if he’s implying that he wants to stay with her or that he simply doesn’t want to leave.) All the same, she is thankful for it. She is thankful for him.

(She dreams sometimes that he answers her with a kiss, his lips covering hers as he whispers promises of safety and happiness. But that is not this reality, and that is not this Bellamy. She knows he would not lie to her in such a way. So she squashes the hope and continues on.)

They run out of water three weeks into their journey. Clarke is the first to notice (of course she’s the first to notice; she’s the one who is always giving her rations away).  When she does, she holds in her hysteria till they all stop to rest. Then she stumbles into Bellamy’s arm, sobbing, asking him if she’s led them to their deaths. 

He wipes her tears away and tells her to save her water. (They need it now more than ever.)

They travel for two more days, this time not stopping for rest at all. Those who are too weak to continue on are carried by those who are strong enough (They are a family. They have been through fire and blood and have come out tempered steel. They have chosen their family and their family is each other now.) Someone suggests that they leave the weak behind; let natural selection take it’s course.

Clarke contemplates it.

Bellamy, however, coldly stares at the man and tells him that when _he_ is too weak to carry on, he will be the first one abandoned. The man shuts his mouth after that and does not speak again.

They keep carrying on; they keep carrying their family.

It is nearing the beginning of the third day when Wick notices it. He pauses and places his hand on Clarke’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Darkness surrounds them, but he is squinting nevertheless, looking out into the distance.

“Clarke,” he whispers, something between awe and joy passing over his features, as if he is witnessing a miracle. “Get Bellamy.”

She does. And when they both are standing next to the older man, he raises his hand to point out on the horizon, where the faintest light is flickering.

 “Light,” her co-leader whispers in awe. Then he starts laughing and it sounds like angels singing from heaven. He turns and grabs her shoulders, a grin of unadulterated ecstasy and relief on his face. “Clarke,” he says between his laughs. “ _Light_. The City of Light!”

His smile is contagious. Before she knows what’s going on, they’re running through the ranks of the wearisome travelers, telling them they’re almost there, they’re almost safe. (She wonders if they’re almost home.)

As they near the source of their salvation, Clarke realizes that the light is not from fires as she expected. It’s from _electricity_. It seems like of the best parts of the Ark and the few good things of the ground are combined in perfect proportions to create a safe haven, a paradise she might be able to claim as her home.

They arrive at the gates to the city to find them locked, and for a moment, Clarke fears that they will die inches away from the one thing that can save them. Then a voice calls down from the wall, “Who approaches the City of Light?”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but Bellamy places his hand on her shoulder. She bites her lips and nods; he has always been the better speaker.

“Survivors of the Mecha station on the Ark,” he calls back, “and the remaining Hundred.”

“The remaining Hundred?” a different voice calls back. “As in the hundred criminals sent down from space?”

A flash of panic takes hold of Clarke’s chest (they know, they _know_ that they’re criminals) and she reaches out to grasp Bellamy’s arm, a frantic look in her eyes. He does not turn to face her, but instead an almost conflicted look passes his features before they harden.

“Yes,” he says, and she is sure he sealed their fate, the fate given to them the moment they were pushed into a metal coffin and sent into hell.

There is a silence that lasts an eternity and Clarke nearly falls to her knees in despair. _He has killed us_ , she thinks to herself. _He has killed us all._  

Then the massive door begins to open and Clarke’s legs actually give out beneath her. The only thing keeping her from falling to the ground is Bellamy’s arms that suddenly dart out and catch her.

“Hang on, princess,” he whispers. “We’re going to be all right. Just hang on.”

He swings her arm over his shoulder and all but drags her into the city, the rest of their people following. As the last of them file in, the gate swings closed with the resounding sound of metal on metal, the bolts sliding into place.

Clarke looks up at the lightposts lining the street and sees a small army of people standing before them. Her arm still swung around Bellamy’s shoulder, she notices a woman standing at the front of them all, grey hair tied up in a tight bun. She looks harsh at first, scars decorating her face like medals of honor.

“Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake, I assume,” the woman says. Her face is unreadable and Clarke wonders if they have come this far only to be massacred in the streets, killed like stray dogs.

Then a smile breaks out across the woman’s face, softening her features and taking years off of her completion. The tension in the air is released and Clarke’s shoulders sag in relief. Beside her, she hears Bellamy let out a breath she did not know he was holding.

“I have heard of the deeds you two have accomplished,” the woman says, “and let me tell you, they are nothing short of miraculous.” She turns to the rest of their party, to the survivors that have become family, to the people who have been through so much and are now finally, _finally_ allowing themselves to hope for refuge, for safety, for _happiness_.

“You have travelled far. You must be tired,” she calls out to them, a look of compassion in her eyes, and Clarke realizes that behind her scars, this woman holds the kindness of a mother and the will of a warrior. “Rest,” the woman says. “Rest easy, People of the Sky. You are safe now.”

They are safe now.

As their people begin to follow the woman through the sea of parted people, Clarke twists her body to bury herself into Bellamy’s chest, her face pressed into the safety of his body. His arms wrap around her and he pulls her into her.

“Are we safe, Bellamy?” she asks, tears running down her cheeks and leaving wet marks on his shirt. “Are we out of the woods?”

He does not answer, so she pulls away and looks up at him. She is shocked to find his brown eyes boring into hers with an emotion so intense, so passionate she feels her bones shake within her.

She sniffs and pulls a hand free to wipe away her tears. “I know,” she mumbles to herself. “I know, save your tears. Save your water—”

Before she really knows what’s happening he’s pressing his chapped lips to hers and she can taste the salt of his sweat and feel the grains of sand caught between their lips. It is a short, chaste kiss, but it shows so much more. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead against hers, he runs his thumb across her bottom lip, both of their eyes closed in some sort of liberation, some sort respite.

“Not this time, princess,” he whispers. “Not anymore.” 

All she can think to say is, “Why didn’t you do that sooner?”

“I didn’t want to,” he replies. “Not until I knew that we had a chance. Not until I knew that we weren’t going to die. Not until I knew that we were safe.”

A choked laugh escapes Clarke and her hand reaches around his neck to pull his mouth back down onto hers. Her hand twists into his dark hair and she finds herself lost somewhere between laughing and crying against his lips.

They were safe.

They were _safe_.

They were safe.

* * *

           **Notes:**

              Reviews are welcome! Feel free to check me out on [tumblr](viansian.tumblr.com) or [FF.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5549839/)!


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